


In Which You Probably Shouldn't Say Those Kinds of Things Around Children, Crowley

by Scree_Kat



Series: Ineffable Parenthood [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But oh SOMEONE does his inner monologue come with a language warning, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is good at being a Dad, Gen, Here be cussing, no really if it bothers you stop reading now, so much cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 11:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scree_Kat/pseuds/Scree_Kat
Summary: Crowley tries, okay? But sometimes you have to say very inappropriate things at or about very idiotic people.AKA parseltongue is problematic.





	In Which You Probably Shouldn't Say Those Kinds of Things Around Children, Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anelees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anelees/gifts).

> This series isn't published in chronological order. If this is something that'll irritate you, consider this your sign from the universe to run. Run like Hastur is drunk and lonely and trying to chat you up.

Almost 6,000 years ago, right around the time humanity realised that cursing was rather a lot of fun, Crowley fell into a rather unusual habit. Well, unusual for a demon at any rate. 

Cursing in and of itself wasn't a problem amongst demons; in fact, it had been a demon that gave humanity the idea of calling each other horrible names in the first place. Demons _loved _cursing, because they'd made it, because it turned humans that little bit further towards evil and all those other not-good but official sounding things, but mostly because it gave them an excuse to tell each other exactly what they thought at any given moment and receive praise and commendation for their creativity rather than an unfortunate and likely gruesome death. 

Like all demons, Crowley loved a good cussword. Well, strictly speaking, he liked all of them, especially when creatively and liberally applied to a conversation. He just didn't use them often. 

Like most things, it was all Aziraphale's fault. They'd been in some god-forsaken bit of desert, sipping on a drink that tasted like it was set to be fatal to those of a non-immortal persuasion, talking idly about work, humanity, and the horrors of middle management. After a rousing defence of Heaven (one that sounded rather insulting if viewed from a certain cynical perspective, Crowley had noted rather gleefully), Aziraphale had leaned in and asked, whisper soft, how it was all going down below. Crowley had fought the urge to make a horribly inappropriate joke at the accidental double entendre, and was actually rather proud of his self-restraint, all things considered. Instead, he had answered the question honestly, noting the ascension of a particularly uppity new Duke named Hastur and giving an accurate, if not-particularly kind description of his new boss. It was one of his nicer, kinder descriptions, truthfully, in respect for his current company. But Aziraphale had acted utterly horrified, had ended the conversation and hurried away with barely a word but a deeply disappointed expression marring his otherwise handsome face. Crowley found he hated that look upon his angel's face, especially when it was directed at him (and spent literally thousands of years carefully ignoring or justifying the use of possessive language in his inner monologues).

The next time they had met, a hundred years later, Crowley had been on his absolute best behaviour, editing his every word to ensure Azirphale never had cause to look at him in such away again. Eventually, it became habit, though sometimes a demon couldn't help the need to mutter something impolite. 

He wasn't sure when he'd started hissing insults instead of verbalising them in ways Aziraphale could hear. Probably not particularly long after his self-imposed exile from the fun parts of any given language, if he were honest. In the rest of his life, he would cuss like a sailor on shore leave (if said sailor had a particularly vulgar imagination for creative language use) if the need presented itself. Or the want. Or the very slight urge. He'd still get most creative for Hastur, if only because he was a particularly grand sort of fuckweasel who deserved the effort, but for all Aziraphale knew or would ever know, he'd only ever sworn the once. (Aziraphale, it must be noted, might play the benevolent, possibly inattentive bumbler when it suited him to, but he was never actually fool enough to not notice the way Crowley devolved into soft hisses when particularly angry, and was certainly smart enough to put two and two together and be able to guess at the sort of language his friend was using. However, given the effort the demon was clearly taking to censor himself, and how difficult Aziraphale assumed it would be to convert rude words into linguistically correct hisses- and he'd kept track, Crowley was definitely repeating some of them- the angel decided that words he couldn't understand shouldn't be cause for conflict, and didn't bother to mention Crowley's rather obvious habit.)

After the Almostageddon, when he found himself spending all of his time beside his angel, Crowley tried to curb the hissing, just in case Aziraphale noticed. And then with two small and oh-so-impressionable children running around, he found himself trying even harder. 

But sometimes? Sometimes he slipped up. 

*

All things considered, aside from the poor moods of almost all involved, it had all the fixings of a nice meal. Crowley may not enjoy cooking overly much, given it seemed rather pointless to struggle with pots and pans when a single thought could create all you needed or wanted without any cleaning required, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it. He was, in fact, rather talented in the culinary arts (though he would rather kiss Gabriel- with tongue- than admit to learning in hopes of capturing Aziraphale's attention) and a Crowley-cooked meal was guaranteed to require second and third helpings. While Harry and Hermione had gone riding with the Them, Crowley and Aziraphale had taken Anathema's advice to do some grocery shopping in the village. While two men clearly in a relationship and raising a pair of children wasn't something the town had too much issue with, apparently the thought of them not supporting local businesses was too much for the self-proclaimed Neighbourhood Watch to abide. He'd been muttering around the village for weeks, and in the name of fitting in, they'd gone and bought the bare necessities as quickly as possible. Which in actuality looked a lot more like Aziraphale checking every single piece of fruit or vegetable for defects while Crowley trudged along behind him fighting the urge to whine about the indignity of carrying a barely functional basket more rust than metal while a middle aged woman stared him down suspiciously the entire time, even as she gossiped quietly into the phone against her ear as if he couldn't hear every word. The gossip he could understand. But acting like he was a wayward tween out to shove chocolates into his pockets was unforgivable. What was there to steal, anyway? They barely had anything worth picking up. Crowley was positive humans couldn't actually live off the meagre rations available at the store, but it made Aziraphale happy to pretend, and he was nothing if not obliging to his angel. And if he hissed softly in the general direction of the old bitch behind the counter, who could blame him? He made a mental note not to let Hermione come with them when next Aziraphale felt the urge to play at being human, fought the urge to flip the bitch off on his way out the door, and carried the bags one handed so he could open the boot with a snap of his fingers and watch the door raise obediently. 

The last he heard as he held the door open for Aziraphale was 'Mr Fell seems so nice. He could do so much better, don't you think?' His mood hadn't recovered, but as Aziraphale had seemed so excited at the thought of an Italian dinner, he had hidden himself in the kitchen to prepare, or more accurately, to pout and stew and feel wretched as he worked because even if she didn't even _know_ either of them, she still made a damn good point. Thankfully, Aziraphale had seemed oblivious to the situation, and had wandered to his library to read once they had gotten the groceries inside. 

Crowley's poor mood worsened when Harry and Hermione came home twenty minutes past their curfew, both scowling as though they'd stepped in something particularly rancid, and refusing to give any reason as to why beyond a rather enraged 'it's not our fault' from Harry. It had taken an act of sheer will to calm himself enough to serve up dinner and settle everyone around the table, and even Aziraphale's innocent confusion wasn't enough to improve his mood. He twirled the pasta absently, not hungry in the slightest, his mind bouncing painfully between _what if she's right?_ and _what the fuck is their fucking problem?_ depending on what part of the room he was looking at. Hermione stabbed at her pasta as though honouring a particularly nasty vengeance debt against it. He doubted she'd even noticed her eyes flaring to their yellow, serpentine form in her rage, though it was certainly a conversation they'd need to have at some point. Harry, like Crowley, was playing with his food, not even bothering to pretend to eat when Aziraphale looked over at him rather pointedly as a reminder. 

It took five minutes of grumpy silence broken only by the screech of cutlery against plate for the angel to break. 

'That's enough! I demand to know what on earth is going on, right this instant!' Aziraphale was slow to anger, but when he lost his patience, it was wise to fall into line. Crowley decided, rather petulantly, that he didn't particularly feel like being wise, thank you very bloody much. He shovelled a mouthful of pasta onto his fork and into his mouth, making a show of chewing while the angel looked ready to hit him with the wine bottle. 'Harry. Hermione. You can start.' Unlike Crowley, who had 6,000 years to get used to the angel's frustration, the children had never been faced with a grumpy angel before. It took seconds for Harry to break, dropping his gaze to the table and pouting as though offended by the tablecloth's very existence. 

'It doesn't matter.'

'It bloody well does if it has you both acting like this. In this family, we do not lie to each other. We do not pretend things are alright when they most certainly are not.' His frustrated gaze shifted to Crowley. 'We do not hide behind our glasses to pretend we're not upset. So we will sit here, all of us, until you've removed your glasses and all three of you have told me what is going on. We have the rest of eternity, I'm confident I can wait all of you out.' Crowley sighed as his angel crossed his arms stubbornly across his chest and settled himself more comfortably in his chair to wait them out. The thought of breaking through that determination, amusing though it might have been at any other time, was utterly exhausting.

Aziraphale was staring at him, silently demanding he step up and be the adult. Fighting the urge to tell them all to fuck off and slither off into the sunset for some peace and bloody quiet, he scrunched his eyes closed behind his glasses and groaned. Slowly, already regretting it, he removed them. He could usually control his eyes, make them at least a little more human-like. But frustrate him enough, and the skill vanished. 

The kids had never seen his eyes at his most demonic. He'd never wanted them to, if he were honest, the same way he'd never wanted them to see his fully serpentine form. Aziraphale's quiet gasp of realisation was lost to the sound of Harry and Hermione's shock. He forced himself to speak when every part of him wanted to escape the stares, to curl up somewhere warm and hide. 

'When we went to the shop today the woman was a total...ugh... she was _not_ nice. She said not nice things, and even if you were too distracted to notice I knew you wouldn't let me do anything about it so I had to just... let her. And I hated it, and I hate her.' He didn't care that he sounded petulant. Especially when Hermione launched herself into his lap, hugging him tightly and whispering that they'd take care of the old cow if he wanted them to. 

And that? That made it very hard to hang onto his bad mood. He sniggered, dropping a kiss to the mess of hair sneakily reaching out as if to wrap around his throat. 'Nah, kid. Angel'd skin me for boots if you went darkside over little old me.'

'I wouldn't let him,' she muttered darkly into his shoulder, and the snigger became a full-blown bout of laughter as he imagined his fluffy kitten of a daughter rising up against the Angel of the Eastern Gate in defence of a demon's right to pout. 

'My hero.' She huffed, and he hugged her tightly until she relaxed against him. 'See? Got me outta my mood and everything. Which means it's your turn, my little hellions. What happened?'

Harry looked away, glaring defiantly until he caught his father's worried gaze. The kid had a damn good sigh on him. 

'We were riding. We weren't doing anything wrong, we're allowed to ride as long as we're safe. All of us are! But this stupid old man yelled at us until we stopped, and started yelling at us for being hoodlums. He said Adam was a horrible child and he was gonna tell his Dad. He didn't even do anything! We didn't do anything wrong! So I told him that.'

Harry's jaw clenched, and it reminded Crowley rather painfully of sitting in the Principal's office, watching Harry pointedly refuse to say that what he'd done was wrong. 

'I take it he didn't like the reminder?'

'He said...' Harry scrunched his eyes, looked away. It was clear he was ready to cry.

'What did he say?' Aziraphale had a way of making his rage almost invisible, something Crowley had never quite managed. The sentence sounded far less murderous than Crowley would have made it. It was a little bit impressive. When it was clear Harry wouldn't respond, Crowley moved Hermione so that he could meet her angry, serpentine gaze. 'Well, Miss Hiss? What'd the old guy say?'

She straightened her spine the way she'd done the first time they'd met, when she'd forced herself to speak a truth that hurt her. His bad mood resurfaced with vengeance. 'He said we couldn't know correct behaviour given we're being raised in a den of iniquity.' Her voice dropped to hurt. 'He called you both perverts. We told him you weren't, and the others did, too, but he wouldn't listen, just kept shouting until we left.'

Crowley hissed. It was a rather long hiss, given how much he had to say on the subject of stupid old assholes with opinions. It started with a running commentary on the animals the man's ancestors must have fucked to somehow manage to birth him, and it went rather downhill from there. He doubted he'd even been so inventive about things to cram down or up orifices when dealing with Hastur. He was contemplating the best way to miracle a rocket up the old fucker's arse and send him to explode in the atmosphere like a soggy fucking firework when Harry's laughter broke through the haze of rage.

'What's so funny?'

'I'm pretty sure you're not meant to say that kinda stuff in front of kids, Dad. Pretty sure like half of that stuff would be illegal or a war crime or something.'

'Most was just morally reprehensible. But yeah, probably best you never repeat that, huh?' Harry sniggered, the sound fading rapidly as he noticed the utter confusion on Hermione and Aziraphale's faces. 

'What?'

'You... you could understand that? He was just hissing like a balloon with a leak.' Hermione was looking between them as though unsure if they were joking or not. Crowley felt a fissure of fear as his brain caught up with what had been happening. 

'You can talk to snakes?' Harry nodded.

'Can't everyone?' 

'No. It's rare. Maybe two mortals in the last century? Rare enough that the stupider people in the world think it's a sign of evil. It's not, in case you were wondering.' The anger in the room fell away, suitably distracted by Hermione and Harry's decent into hyperactive questioning. Crowley made a mental note to deal with the stupid old bastard... after learning a new language to curse in. Judging by Aziraphale's polite expression, there'd be two occult and/or celestial beings on a vengeance quest soon enough. But probably also a conversation about what on earth he'd said that amused Harry so thoroughly.

It took an hour, during which Crowley's phone was produced to watch YouTube snake videos and offer translations to Hermione for the two to be distracted by the promise of dessert if they'd eat their damned pasta. And if Crowley offered up a moment of gratitude when neither child thought to ask why he had snake eyes and the ability to speak to snakes, well, who could blame him?

**Author's Note:**

> For those asking for a chronological order, it runs as follows:
> 
> In Which A Family Is Created Through Arguable Theft  
Thoughts From the Back of a Bentley  
Hiding In Plain Sight  
Interlude: Through the Looking Glass  
Her Father’s Eyes  
In Which You Probably Shouldn’t Say Those Kinds Of Things Around Children, Crowley  
The Demon Of Lost Causes  
Raising Hell  
Somebody to Love  
Interlude: A Walk Down Privet Drive and An Ominous Sense of Oncoming Doom


End file.
